


Of Golden Rings and Goldfish

by nylux



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Grief/Mourning, M/M, POV Sherlock Holmes, POV Third Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-11-12
Updated: 2016-11-12
Packaged: 2018-08-30 13:22:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,436
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8534791
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nylux/pseuds/nylux
Summary: A mysterious man at Mycroft's funeral makes Sherlock reconsider his own life choices.





	

There are mistakes which lead to consequences beyond repair. When Mycroft Holmes made a mistake, he paid with his life.

Sherlock was at a funeral. His brother's funeral. To his right stood his parents, their faces grief-stricken but composed. To his left stood John. There were a few other people: Greg Lestrade, Molly Hooper, two almost identical-looking dark-haired women, a few other people Sherlock recognized as members of Mycroft's household staff. Official England has expressed its condolences but stayed away. Mycroft was not the kind of public figure who got a pompous funeral. This was a family matter, organized by someone who was, officially, not family: John.

John had been a rock in the past few days, even more than usual. The news of Mycroft's death had come as a surprise but not completely unexpected. It was fairly obvious that Mycroft had been a moving target that was bound to get hit someday. Yet, it had seemed almost surreal when the day had finally come. John had been there when a government official had brought the news, and had immediately realized the gravity of the situation. He had not asked what Sherlock needed. Instead, he'd told him what to do. 

"You have to tell your parents." John had said. And so, Sherlock had called. "Do you want help with organizing the funeral?" John had asked, and Sherlock had given a nod. 

Now, a week later, Sherlock found himself standing at the grave. John had taken care of everything, invited everyone. There was no priest. The idea of having a religious funeral was slightly ridiculous in Mycroft's case. True to form, Mycroft had not left any directions concerning funeral arrangements. This was only logical. After all, funerals were for the living, not for the dead. There was a speaker leading through the ceremony. He was ex-military. Someone John knew from his time before Sherlock. He spoke about commitment and sense of responsibility. It was oddly fitting, given that it came from someone who had never met Mycroft Holmes. 

"And now let us take a minute of silence to commemorate the role Mycroft Holmes has played in our lives." Sherlock knew that a minute was not enough to do this justice. He was still in the process of realizing the impact Mycroft had had on him, and the even greater impact of not having him in his life anymore. He knew it would take weeks, months even, to fully come to terms with the situation.

Sherlock looked around himself. John gave him a brief glance, gauging Sherlock's current state of mind, then quickly looked away, when he decided that no immediate intervention was required. Everyone else was staring at the ground. In some distance, Sherlock noticed a man. He was standing a few graves away, dark blond hair, in his mid-forties, not someone who would stand out in a crowd. Ordinary. He did not appear to be visiting one of the graves. Rather, it seemed as if he were part of Mycroft's funeral. When the man noticed Sherlock staring at him, he gave a brief nod, then quickly averted his gaze.

"And with that, we say our final good-bye to our beloved friend and family member." The word "beloved" brought Sherlock's focus back to the coffin that was disappearing into the ground in front of him. Was Mycroft a beloved person? Respected certainly. Needed for sure, by many people including Sherlock himself. Needed even by whole countries. These would have to do without him now, just like Sherlock.

"Sherlock, are you coming?" John's voice was soft behind him. Sherlock felt someone touch his arm. Not John. It was the firm grip of his father's hand. 

"Yes." Sherlock said and followed John's lead. Few words were exchanged as the small group of attendants bid their farewells. Lestrade said he would call next week. Molly just gave him a long look, which said enough. Mrs. Hudson announced that she would go back to Baker Street with Molly and Lestrade. A long hug from his mother and father. "Take care of him," his mother said to John, who just smiled in response. 

Sherlock watched his parents' car leave. "Shall we go, Sherlock?" John asked. 

"Yes." It seemed that Sherlock's eloquence had been reduced to just one word. They walked towards a cab to take them back to Baker Street. 

"Thank you, John." Sherlock said, looking out of the window. He felt the brush of a hand along his sleeve. "Anytime." 

And so it ends, Sherlock thought.

*

"Is it really OK if I go for my shift at the surgery today?" John asked the next morning while handing Sherlock a cup of coffee.

Sherlock was uncomfortable with this question. "Of course it is. Why shouldn't it be?" 

"You know very well, why." John replied, ignoring Sherlock's acerbic tone. 

"I think I can take care of myself for the next eight hours. I'll go through some old case files or something."

"Alright then. I'll bring some take-away for dinner." 

After John had left, Sherlock moved to his chair. He was intent on doing some work, but his mind had decided to obsess about the funeral. This mysterious man standing in the distance. Who was he? Sherlock had never seen him before. His facial expression had been well-guarded but still he had looked like someone who had known Mycroft, and was affected by his death. A friend? Definitely not an enemy.

There was a knock at the door. "Sherlock?" Mrs. Hudson peeked through the living room door. "Sherlock. There is someone who wants to see you. Can I let him in?" 

Sherlock looked up. A client? That would be a welcome distraction. "Yes, Mrs. Hudson."

The suit, the neutral facial expression and the swift movements of someone trained in martial arts immediately identified the visitor as one of Mycroft's minions.

"Mr. Holmes?"

"What do you want? Don't tell me my brother is meddling from beyond the grave now." Sherlock almost managed the annoyed tone of voice that he had reserved for his brother's entourage. 

"You may not be entirely wrong, sir," the man said, unfazed by Sherlock's rudeness. He pulled a folder from his briefcase. "Mr. Holmes has arranged for you to have this in case of his death." He put the file down on the small table next to John's chair. "Good day, Mr. Holmes." 

Sherlock reached for the folder as soon as the man was out of the door. It only contained a single sheet of paper. On the top right corner there a portrait photograph of the man from the funeral. To the left of the photo there was a name: Thomas Alcott. Foreign Office. Below that, there was an address in London. Sherlock recognized it of course: a quiet residential area, upper middle class. In 1985 a gruesome murder had taken place in that street. 

"Mycroft." Sherlock said to the empty room, shaking his head. Leave it to his brother to present Sherlock with a mystery surrounding his own death. Before he could really think about it, Sherlock was out of the door, telling the cabbie to take him to the address in the file. 

Twenty minutes later Sherlock found himself in a street that was lined with a string of identical-looking narrow houses. He rang the doorbell. After a few moments the man from the funeral opened the door. Sherlock's brain went into action. Personal grooming indicates meticulous attention to detail and manners. Not pets, at least no hairy ones. Frequent traveller. Married. Married? That did not make any sense. Everything in his appearance indicated that the man was unattached and living for whatever the Foreign Office employed him for. Where had this come from? Sherlock scanned the person in front of him again and found the origin of the deduction: a simple golden ring on the man's right hand. It looked like a wedding band. Actually, it looked exactly like the ring that Mycroft had been wearing for eight years. Until his death. Sherlock had been curious when he had first noticed the ring on Mycroft. It had been clear that Mycroft had expected him to ask about it. So, of course, Sherlock had not asked. Mycroft, however, had made sure that there hadn't been any clues from which Sherlock could have deduced the story behind the ring. A case unsolved. Until today. 

"Mr. Holmes?" The inquisitive expression and soft smile indicated that Sherlock had been staring for too long. "Mr Holmes, I have been expecting you. Please come in."

"Thank you." Sherlock said and followed the man into the house. He was led into a small study. The walls were covered with bookshelves, filled with books written in various languages. There was a large desk facing the wall to the right. To the left there was a fireplace. Two heavy leather armchairs separated by a small table were facing it. Mr Alcott indicated for Sherlock to take a seat in one of them. 

Sherlock took off his coat which was immediately taken from his hands to be hung up on a cloth hook behind to living room door. 

"Mr. Holmes." Thomas Alcott was facing him now. "I know it's not even noon, but would you mind having a drink? In view of what we are going to discuss I think we may need one." 

"Yes, I think this would be a good idea." Sherlock sat down on the left chair. Mr. Alcott soon joined him in the right one and handed him a generously filled glass of brandy. Sherlock pulled a sheet of paper out of his jacket and handed it over.

"My brother had this delivered to me this morning." The man looked at it and smiled fondly.

"That's Mycroft." he said. "I was expecting something like this." He gave the paper back to Sherlock.

Sherlock was increasingly confused. Time to come to the point. "Mr. Alcott, what exactly was your relation to my brother?" 

Mr. Alcott took a sip from his glass. "I saw that you noticed the ring."

"I did, yes."

"Before you jump to conclusions: I am not your brother-in-law." 

Sherlock looked up. This was unexpected. "I have to admit I do not understand," Sherlock conceded.

"The situation is quite extraordinary, also for me." Mr. Alcott got up to get something from his desk. It was a hand-written note. "I have been wearing this ring only since yesterday. It's Mycroft's."

Sherlock took the paper. He recognized his brother's handwriting. 

_Dear Thomas,_

_if you receive this letter this means that our shared time has come to an end. I hope that I do not need to tell you how much I have always valued your presence in my life. We both know that it went far beyond the professional. An unfortunate aspect of being Mycroft Homes is that the lives of those near me are in constant danger. Therefore I cannot afford the luxury of entertaining close relationships, because I would inevitably risk the lives of those who matter most to me. For most of my life this was an easy burden. With you it has become torture. This is to tell you that you have been the one special person for me. I have come to believe that the sentiment has been mutual. Years ago I have started to wear the ring that comes with this letter. To me it signified that I was yours, even though it could never become a reality. Now that I no longer have any use for it I want you to have it._

_Eternally yours, Mycroft._

Sherlock kept staring at the letter. He had always thought that his brother was above emotion. It was unreal and intimidating to see that he was a human being after all. Sherlock swallowed then looked over to the man beside him.

"Did you know of my brother's feelings for you?" he asked.

Mr. Alcott took a long moment to answer. "Yes, I suppose I did, but not at first. I do not need to tell you how hard to read your brother can be, even for those who are close to him. Whatever "close" means in connection with Mycroft Holmes. That's why this confession means to world to me. I just wish it had not come under these tragic circumstances."

Sherlock could not suppress a grin. Inappropriate. "It cannot be denied that my brother had an inclination towards the dramatic. It runs in the family."

Mr. Alcott laughed. A sad laugh. "You should call me Thomas."

"Sherlock." They raised their glasses.

"To Mycroft," Thomas said. "To Mycroft," Sherlock replied. They drank.

The whole story still did not make much sense to Sherlock. He needed to know more. "If you don't mind, how did you meet? How did _this_ happen?" He pointed at the letter.

"It's alright. You are entitled to know." He took a generous sip from his drink. "We met over a decade ago. I had worked as a banquet manager at various luxury hotels all over the world before I was approached by the Foreign Office. Mycroft already was at the top of the hierarchy when I started to work there. He was only a few years older than me, and younger than most of those in the inner circle, but everyone seemed to take orders from him. I was impressed and intimidated at first, just like anyone else. Nobody seemed to want to tell me what his actual position at the Foreign Office was. By now I think that no one really knew. Everybody seems to know Mycroft Holmes as a different person."

Sherlock understood. He was beginning to see that he himself knew very little about his brother. He had missed something essential. He had even chosen not to see it. 

"As what did you know my brother then?" Sherlock asked. 

"High-rank diplomat. He was the one who arranged for the right people to meet. This is where I came in. I was in charge of organizing the actual events. Balls, official receptions, less official dinners, dinners that officially never took place." He smiled. "The latter ones in particular."

"I see." Sherlock said. "Mycroft would not be bothered with the details."

"Yes and no." Thomas said. "You are right in the sense that he had an army of people to work out the details for him. But he was always informed about everything. He knew what he wanted, and what he did not want. Mycroft had various teams working for him. I was the head of such a team. There were regular briefings with him. Usually, these happened at the Foreign Office, and the whole team had to be present."

"Until you began to meet in private," Sherlock interjected. That much was obvious.

"Yes," Thomas said, a fond smile on his face. "I don't exactly know what happened. But he had missed an important meeting due to some unspecified emergency. We should have gotten the final directions for a conference banquet to take place the following day. I got a phone call from one of his PAs at 11pm, announcing his impending arrival at my home. Mycroft was there ten minutes later. We were sitting in this room, just like you and I are now, until long past midnight and discussed seating orders, breaks between meals, all the usual details."

Sherlock started to get the picture. "I suppose this was not the only meeting of this kind."

Thomas smiled again. "No it was not. At first, there were more excuses. But soon our meetings became his last appointment of the day. And they started to take longer than strictly necessary. By that time I was already in deep, concerning my feelings for him."

Sherlock tried to picture his brother sitting in the same chair that he was occupying now, in front of a fire, going over all those boring details that had a deeper meaning in the world of diplomacy. 

"How, ahm..., personal were those meetings?" Sherlock cursed himself for his curiosity. He did not really want to know details, but he could not help asking.

Thomas offered Sherlock some more of the brandy before refilling his own glass. "This is hard to answer," he said. "I think, by normal standards, it would have been next to nothing. Some subtle flirting maybe. But you cannot measure Mycroft by normal standards. After a year of regular meetings, we were on a first-name basis. He asked me to call him Mycroft. This meant a lot to me. And yet, not many personal details were exchanged. We discussed about politics, the news, the guests of the events we organized. Sometimes, although very rarely, he mentioned details about his work schedule: when he was travelling, for instance. He always told me, as if he were apologizing for not being able to meet me for awhile." 

"Did you think that he harboured feelings for you back then?" Sherlock asked. 

There was a brief flash of sadness and regret in the man's features. "To be honest, no. It did not occur to me. I thought I was special in the sense that I seemed to be the only one to meet him in a private setting. But I had no way of confirming this to be true. It was easy to discard any signs I thought I had received from him as wishful thinking." He took a deep breath before continuing. "And then he started to wear the ring. I was devastated when I first saw it."

Sherlock could relate. "Did you ask him about it?"

Thomas laughed. "It should not be surprising to you that I did not have to. He answered the question before could find the courage to ask. He said that there was no room for a partner in his life. That his life was too dangerous and that he did not want to inflict the danger upon anyone. He was very clear on that. He did, however, admit that the ring had a sentimental value for him."

"To my knowledge, this was eight years ago." Sherlock said. "Nothing more happened after that?"

"No. If anything, our meetings became more relaxed. He had made his standpoint clear and I had accepted it. We kept meeting at my home on a regular basis. He clearly enjoyed my company. I adored him and did not do much to hide it. I am glad that the message has come across, given what he wrote in that letter. Mycroft deserved to know that he was loved."

Sherlock was oddly touched by this. People deserved to know that they were loved. But what if this love was unwelcome? "Were you aware of Mycroft's feelings for you by then?" he asked. 

"Yes, I think I was. At least I suspected. There was some evidence. Not only his frequent presence at my house. There were casual touches. There was laughter. When he was with me he was not the posh figure that he chose to be on the outside. But nothing more happened."

They sat in silence for a few minutes, staring at the empty fireplace. 

"Well, and this is the end of the story of Mycroft Holmes and Thomas Alcott." Thomas said with a half-smile. 

"Did you ever want it to be more?" Why did that matter to Sherlock? 

"Yes, of course. I wanted everything. I would have taken any risk. But I was not given this choice, and I knew that. Mycroft knew what he was doing and I understand his decision. I loved him for who he was and I accepted that we would not be a couple in the conventional sense. It was good the way it was. And now that I have the confirmation of his feelings for me, the memory of us will always be perfect in my mind."

Sherlock nodded. It made sense. He had come to this place, expecting to find a secret lover. But what he had found instead was pure Mycroft. Mycroft had always told him not to get involved, and it seemed that he had been following his own advice, despite everything. In the end he had managed to keep the person he loved safe. And that was what true, selfless love was about, wasn't it? To ensure the other's well-being on top of everything else. 

"Thank you for telling me," Sherlock said. "And thank you for taking care of my brother, I suppose."

"Thank you for listening." Thomas' voice was filled with honest gratitude. "Nobody knew about this thing between us. Not friends, not family, not colleagues. I am not entitled to grieve for him, because officially there was no connection. You are probably the only person who will ever know. I am glad that somebody knows." 

Sherlock did not know how to respond to that. Thomas noticed. "I am sorry. I made you uncomfortable."

"It's alright. I should be on my way." Sherlock felt like a coward. "Thank you for your time."

They got up. Thomas went to fetch Sherlock's coat and accompanied him to the door. "Give my regards to Doctor Watson. We have never met, of course, but Mycroft seemed to think highly of him."

"He better should have." Sherlock said with a vehemence that he had not quite expected from himself. "Thank you for helping me solve the mystery of the golden ring."

Thomas smiled. "You should thank Mycroft. In case you feel like talking about your brother at some point, you know where to find me."

Sherlock nodded. "Goodbye."

*

Sherlock was back at Baker street half an hour later. It was still early in the afternoon. John would not be back until six or seven. Mrs. Hudson was out too. Bridge Club. There were no messages from the Yard or from clients. Sherlock felt strangely unsettled. He did not quite understand why. After all, he had learned all about the identity of the man at the funeral. He had learned something new about his brother. The relationship, even though its existence was unexpected, was entirely consistent with Mycroft's personality. All the mysteries had been solved. And yet, something was not right. 

Sherlock found his violin and started to play. When it got dark outside he moved to his chair, and just sat there, not really knowing what to do with himself. 

"What are you doing here in the dark?" John sounded slightly worried as he turned on the lights in the living room. "Is everything alright? I brought dinner." He held up two plastic bags. Indian. "I'll make us some tea."

A few minutes later John handed him a steaming mug and one of the plastic bags, before sitting down in his chair. They ate in silence. Sherlock detected a few questioning looks from John but decided not to react to them.

"So, what have you been up to all day?" John finally asked, after he had finished eating his chilli chicken. 

Sherlock hesitated for a moment. Maybe John could shed some light on the situation. "I went to see my brother-in-law."

"Your what?" John looked very confused. Little crinkles formed on the bridge of his nose. 

"Well, he is not really my brother-in-law." John did not comment on this, but his expression changed to his familiar _Still-not-making-any-sense-Sherlock!_ -face. Sherlock reached for his jacket on the desk behind him and retrieved the sheet of paper he had been given this morning.

John took it and studied it. Then he looked up at Sherlock. "Are you trying to tell me that this Thomas Alcott and your brother were..."

"Lovers? No, at least not in the traditional sense."

"I don't understand," John said. 

Sherlock finished his tea and set the mug aside. He took a deep breath. Slightly over-dramatic, but the situation required it. And then he started to tell the story. All of it. Just the facts, as Thomas had told him. 

After Sherlock had stopped talking, John was staring at him in utter disbelief. Sherlock waited for him to say something. Nothing. Just more staring. 

"So..." Sherlock could not stand the silence anymore. "What do you think?"

"Sherlock, I..." John's voice was loud in the quiet room. Then he closed his eyes, took a deep breath, exhaled slowly through his mouth. The way he always did when he was fighting to regain his composure. When he spoke his voice sounded calm. "They say one should not speak ill of that dead. But Sherlock, your brother was a selfish bastard. And a bloody idiot. And a coward." 

Sherlock was taken aback by the force of John's reaction. He did not know what to say. Sarcasm maybe? "Well, that's not exactly news."

That did not really lighten the mood. Quite the opposite, actually. John was shaking his head rather vigorously. "No Sherlock, this is a completely new dimension! He ruined this man's life!"

"No, he did not." Sherlock still did not see why John was so upset. "He protected him."

"No, Sherlock, what Mycroft did was to make a fundamental decision that affected both their lives. He did that all on his own. He completely left out the person he claimed to love. This is _not_ how it's done."

"But it was clear that a relationship would have exposed both of them to great danger. Mycroft had a lot of powerful enemies. It would have been like an invitation to them."

"Obviously." John sounded resigned. "But this man would have accepted this risk. That's what he told you. But your brother did not even give him a chance to voice his opinion."

"He said he understood and accepted Mycroft's decision." Why was Sherlock defending his brother?

"Well, what else can he say now? It's not like Mycroft left him an option." John was shaking his head again.

"He probably would not be alive now if he had been given this option." Sherlock countered. 

"Yes, exactly!" John's voice was getting loud again. "He'd rather be dead than alone and miserable. You just told me that he said he'd wanted everything with Mycroft. Well, what did he get? A dramatic declaration from beyond the grave and a stupid golden ring. And there's nothing he can do about it anymore. Mycroft did not even give him the chance to say it back. That he loved him. The poor bloke will never get closure."

Sherlock tried not to interpret too much into what John had just said. About being denied chances. Wishful thinking was dangerous. He had to tread carefully. Still, there had to be something deeper behind John's anger. John and Mycroft had not been close enough to warrant such an emotional response. Sherlock was beginning suspect something. Memories of a not so distant past were coming back to him. Memories of John's anger. It had been Sherlock's only priority to save the life back then, no matter what, no matter how much it had pained him to leave John in the dark, to leave him behind. John would never have allowed it, if he had known. Sherlock _had_ to leave John out of the equation. Now it seemed that, after all this time, it was coming back at him again. 

"John, are we still talking about Mycroft?" he asked. "Or is this about The Fall again?"

John seemed surprised by that. And he got even angrier. "Damn right, genius."

That hurt. It must have been written all over Sherlock's face because John's apology was immediate. "I am sorry, Sherlock, this was uncalled for." John was very good at reading people, but this also meant that he knew where to hit them. 

Sherlock felt the need to explain himself once again. "John, your life was at stake. There was a sniper aiming at you. You could not have come with me. I could not have guaranteed for your safety."

"Yes, Sherlock I know. You have told me many times. But you should not have left me behind. You should not have gone for Moriarty's network without me. I can bloody well take care of my own safety. And, as you know, we gained nothing in the end. They came for us anyway. Mary, Magnussen, Culverton Smith, the Other One. It could hardly have gotten any worse."

Oh yes, it could have, Sherlock thought. "John, I needed you to be alive." This sounded more like a confession than Sherlock had intended.

"And I needed you to be alive too, Sherlock." John looked him straight in the eye. "Do you have any idea how miserable I was? Even after you had come back." 

They were on thin ice now. Sherlock could see John's pain. It was still there after all this time, and, for once, John did nothing to hide it. He'd never been so direct, never let Sherlock see the full depth of it. Sherlock could barely take it. He hated to see John suffer.

Sherlock closed his eyes for a moment. "I have to admit that I had not anticipated that you would be so affected." Sherlock waited for John's anger to hit him with full force.

"How could you not? Sherlock, you notice _everything_! How could you miss _that_?" John did not sound angry. Desperate, rather. And scared. Not as scared as Sherlock felt, though. Was this really happening?

"My judgement may have been tainted,'' he said, hesitantly. "When it comes to deducing other people, a certain personal distance is essential. I have trouble maintaining that when it comes to you. Always had." There. It was out. Sort of, at least. 

John simply stared at him. Sherlock's heart was beating much too fast. John took a shuddering breath before asking "So, what do we do now?"

Sherlock understood what kind of decision was asked from him. Less than an hour ago he would have been certain that there was only one right way to proceed. He still believed that. But what he considered to be the right thing had changed quite drastically. 

Sherlock looked straight at John. Another dramatic intake of breath. "I have come to understand that my brother was an idiot."

John closed his eyes and smiled. It was one of these John-typical smiles that eclipsed everything. "Yes, so I've heard." He chuckled. "Good thing I ended up with the clever one."

Sherlock grinned and sighed in relief. He realized that he was a bit clueless about what to do next. 

"I don't know what to say." he admitted.

John smiled some more. "I think we have thoroughly established that talking is not really a strength of either of us. We could try for a more action-based approach..." He looked at Sherlock. "Come here."

Sherlock slipped out of his chair. John opened his legs in invitation and Sherlock knelt in front of him. Then he leaned forward to close the distance between them and waited. 

Sherlock gathered his courage and reached for John's left shoulder. A faint touch. Soft. Warm. Calm. Sherlock tilted his head a little. He noticed that John did the same. And then they were kissing. It was an innocent kiss. Tender and chaste. No tongue, no teeth, just lips on lips. Sherlock knew he would treasure this moment for the rest of his life. What an idiot he had been to keep this from himself and from John for so long! Sherlock broke the kiss and crushed John in his arms. He noticed that he was shaking. He tightened his grip on John. John held him firmly. 

"I am sorry," Sherlock whispered into John's shoulder. 

"It's alright. I'm sorry too.," John said, his voice thick with emotion. "At least we got there before it was too late."

Sherlock was completely overwhelmed. He held onto John as if his life depended on it. And it did. But the fear would not go away. "Someone will use this against us," he said with regret.

John forced Sherlock to face him. He looked very serious. "Yes, Sherlock, that's probably true. So let me be very clear. This is what I want. This is what I have wanted for a long time. I would not want it any other way. No matter what will happen. You are not responsible for me." John grabbed his face and kissed him. Forcefully. Passionately. Sherlock's world was spinning. 

The kiss lasted for a long glorious moment. John pulled away to face Sherlock once more. "I know it's a bit ridiculous," he said, "but let's go and visit Mycroft's grave tomorrow. I feel like I have to thank him in person."

John was right. It was pretty ridiculous. But it made perfect sense. "Yes, let's do that."

John smiled. "Alright," he said, and pulled Sherlock back into his arms. 

Sherlock decided never to let go again.


End file.
